


One King to Another

by BoldlyGoingNowhereFast



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fate works in strange ways, M/M, Thorin is angry and doesn't always think ahead, post-Battle of the Five Armies, spoilers for next hobbit movie, unlikely love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1923000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoldlyGoingNowhereFast/pseuds/BoldlyGoingNowhereFast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if King Thranduil was able to heal Thorin's wounds after the Battle of the Five Armies? A short story of an unlikely love that could bridge the gap between two estranged races.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One King to Another

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came to me out of nowhere, along with the strong feelings I have about this ship. This is my first foray into writing for LoTR, but I sure am excited. The events of this story take place after the Hobbit, so please, if you haven't read the book and don't know what happens, do not read! 
> 
> I wasn't going to post this story, but it was sitting on my computer and I thought "what the heck?" So, here you go!

Thorin was not afraid of death, not now that his purpose had been fulfilled and his mountain was back in the calloused, sure hands of his people. The forces of darkness had been pushed back as the dawn overtakes the night, and the dragon that had haunted the dreams of the dwarves every lonely night was dead, his wrath now nothing but a column of smoke in the sky. Their riches were theirs yet again, and even as Thorin felt his own life come to a close, he knew in his heart of hearts that all was well for the Dwarves of Erebor.

As the little hobbit Bilbo bid him a final, watery farewell and granted him his peace, he knew that these were his very final moments. Though he was staring up at the rough canvas of a makeshift shelter, in his heart he was gazing at the carved caverns of the mountain kingdom in its splendor, running a hand along the cool smooth stone that welcomed him home.

The ache of his wounds was starting to cloud his thoughts when he saw movement from the corner of his eye; a flash of gold that attracted the dwarf’s gaze. Through his fogging awareness he recognized the Elvenking in all his crowned glory, standing just inside the tent with his robes that brushed the ground and silvery blond hair that hung in a sheet to his elbows. It seemed the elf had had time to clean up and dress out of his armor.

Thorin hadn’t heard him enter, but he knew that his mind was leaving him and that elves were indeed notoriously quiet. Thorin’s gaze traveled from the piercing blue gaze to what was held in his hands and noticed that he clutched the Orcrist.

“What brings you to my deathbed?” Thorin rasped from a dry throat.

“I have come to return to you what is rightfully yours.” The melodious voice of Thranduil the Elvenking reached through Thorin’s daze of pain, and he followed the elf with his eyes as he stepped closer to the cot, lifting the sword in his hands. His robes shimmered in the candlelight as he moved.

“What have I done to earn your sudden change of heart?” Thorin was beginning to find the sentences difficult to string together; his tongue felt like it was made of lead.

“You are more worthy of a throne under that mountain than any of those who have yearned for it. The line of Durin is strong in your blood, and the dwarves should be proud to have you as their king.” He placed the sword gently on the table that was next to Thorin’s bed and moved so that he could make easier eye contact with the prone dwarf. His expression was one of grim determination, the purpose of which unclear.

“They will have another king in time,” Thorin grunted, pausing in between sentences to catch his fleeting breath. “My time in the land of the living is coming to an end, and I find that I do not feel sorrow for it. I shall dine with my ancestors tonight, and they will welcome me with goblets held high, for I have won back our homeland.”

The Elvenking seemed to be judging him in his gaze like liquid starlight. Thorin was sure he was beginning to lose his sanity to be making such a comparison. “You have not had the chance to rule under the mountain, and that is a sting that even I in my elven kingdom can feel. Surely after all you have been through, you deserve to sit on the throne of your kin.”

There was a strange tone in the elf’s speech, and Thorin furrowed his brows at him. “There is nothing that can be done, King Thranduil. My wounds are too great.”

He could feel as his last reserves of energy left him, making further speech impossible and causing his breath to come in sharp gasps. The tall elf crouched next to his cot so that he was eyelevel with Thorin and spoke urgently in his ear.

“There is a way to save your life, Thorin Oakenshield. This will hurt, and you may not forgive me for taking this valiant death away from you, but you will have time to rule under your mountain yet.” Thorin stared at Thranduil, for there was nothing else he could do and wondered if he was imagining things in his death, or if the Elvenking had lost his mind.

With that the elf stood and started divesting Thorin of his dented and bloody armor with an ease that spoke of either magic or desperation. It was most likely both that quickened the elf’s hands. He managed to strip Thorin to all but his underclothes in a matter of minutes, and then his hands were gone.

Thorin looked as far as was allowed without moving his head and saw that Thranduil was pulling herbs and weeds out of a velvety pouch that had been hung around his neck and placing them on the table where he had laid the Orcrist. He picked up the first clump of greens and quickly crushed it between his hands, ancient Elvish words on his lips. His hands then went to the largest of wounds on Thorin’s chest, pressing the plant into it as he continued his healing words that sounded so pure and powerful in Thorin’s muddled brain. Pain exploded through his body, and he wondered who was screaming only to realize that it was coming from himself. He felt convulsions run through his body, only to be held down by the strong hands on his chest, hands that felt like brands.

The next thirty minutes passed in a painful daze for Thorin, and his awareness narrowed down to the hands pressing on his chest and the face that was hovering over him and chanting words in a language that Thorin couldn’t understand. He could feel the magic in the tent like a heartbeat thrumming against his wounds and his chest. It was when Thorin’s gaze met that of Thranduil that he saw the golden glow that surrounded the Elvenking. His face and hair shone like the finest gold and his eyes like the waters of a freezing river. He was like an apparition from a dream that Thorin could barely remember and could not hold on to. He desperately wanted to grasp onto this vision, this angel that was saving him from his hopeless existence. The hair that brushed his face as the angel leaned over him was a whisper of promise.

The black edges of his vision eventually ate away his sight until the angel was all that was left, and then Thorin fell into a deep sleep, knowing nothing more than the specter that had leaned over him.

~xXx~

Thorin ruled under the mountain with a wiser eye than Thror’s, for Thorin had been humbled by the misfortunes of his life, and he knew the feel of good hard work. He had seen the world like no other king had, and so he cherished his kingdom like no other. Erebor became a stronghold yet again, and Lake-town flourished with the riches that flowed through it under Bard’s rule.

The city of Erebor was again what it had been all those years ago, before the desolation of Smaug, and Thorin was a beloved king with gold woven into his dark hair and the Arkenstone over his head on the throne of his fathers.

All was not well in the mind of the king, though. It seemed dwarven kings were destined to be plagued with thoughts of gold, and Thorin was no exception. This time, though, the gold that filled his dreams was not hidden safely in the mountain. The gold that Thorin dreamt of was out of his reach, and it haunted him, try as he might to banish such foolish thoughts.

He had woken in his tent after the Battle of the Five Armies with minor injuries and feeling strangely refreshed and not entirely sure how that had happened. For the next few weeks, while the dwarves had settled affairs and resettled and rebuilt their homeland, Thorin felt like he was living on borrowed time, as if he was not meant to be alive at all. Not to mention, there were a few hours after the battle that were completely gone, blown away like a leaf on a lake, leaving nothing but ripples of images in its wake. Since there was so much to do, his kingly duties took precedence and he put it to the back of his mind to be dwelled on at another time.

The funerals for the dwarves that had passed in battle had to be arranged, and it was a strong blow dealt that neither Fili nor Kili had been spared. The loss of his two nephews was a sharp pain that caused Thorin much grief as Erebor was reestablished, and it took a long time before his mind and body were settled into his new, true position of King under the Mountain.

Lately, though, his mind had been assaulted with these ripples of memory, and they were getting clearer each night as he stared up at the stone ceiling of his chambers. It was not long until he realized where those few hours after the battle had gone and how he had woken up as if he hadn’t received deathly wounds. It hit him like the slash of a sword, and it left him gaping at the darkened room. The Elvenking had healed him from the brink of death for reasons unknown, and the sight of his face during the enchanting had been burned into his thoughts.

At first, Thorin thought himself going mad. What self-respecting dwarf had thoughts filled with elves? Not only were his thoughts filled with an elf, but it was the king of the elves, the very one who had betrayed his people that terrible, flame-filled day. A voice in the back of his mind reminded him that the elf had redeemed himself the day they retook Erebor and defeated the goblins and orcs, which didn’t help the way his mind rebelled.

Thorin shook these thoughts away. He was Thorin, King under the Mountain, and though he owed his life to an elf, he would not allow it to muddle his thoughts. His stubbornness would be his salvation.

Unfortunately for Thorin, as the days wore on he slowly realized that it _wasn’t_ working. His nighttime thoughts were filled with golden hair and blue eyes more than ever, and it was starting to affect him negatively. Though he was still the strong, sure king, there were some that could see the way his eyes were drawn to the edge of Mirkwood in the distance whenever given the chance, and the way he sometimes clutched at the Orcrist almost unconsciously.

His thoughts of this one infuriating, haughty elf were making his heart ache with a want that had he had only possessed for his homeland in the days of their dislocation. Never before had he dreamt so steadily of another living being, let alone an elf. Was this love? He would have choked and gagged at the thought before, but his mind was too confused to react.

During one of his late, lonely musings, a stray thought came to him that caused him pause. An elvish spell had been used to spare his life, and the Elvenking had had Thorin by himself during the casting. Surely it would have been easy to slip a love spell of sorts into the mix. Thorin could not understand Elvish, so for all he knew that was exactly what Thranduil had done. He had saved Thorin’s life, but only to put branching hooks into his mind in order to inflict insanity.

Flaming anger filled Thorin. This terrible witchcraft needed to be cleansed immediately. It made his very skin crawl to think that there was Elvish magic inside of him, flowing through his blood, making him wish to gaze at who had once been his sworn enemy. This was a new low, even for that meddlesome elf.

The very next day Thorin called for a party to travel into Mirkwood so that he could confront the elf king and get him to take the infernal spell out of his blood. No king could rule with such distracting thoughts in their head. The sooner they were gone the better, and Thorin was not going to hesitate to bring the matter to Thranduil. He would not let the elf get away with such trickery.

At dawn, Thorin rode out on ponies with three of his guards around him, each of them armed and dressed in the rich colors of the house of Durin. Thorin would have gone alone, but now that he was a king it was important to keep as safe as he could for the sake of his people. The Elvenking was not to be trusted, either, as he had proved again and again.

Entering the Mirkwood brought memories of giant spiders and hopelessness crawling to the forefront of his mind, which put him on edge right away. There was a darkness resting upon these woods that prickled his nerves and clouded his mind. The ponies nickered unhappily and tossed their heads, which Thorin took as a cue to let them go. The path was small and difficult for horseback, which made the quest much easier on foot. Once the ponies were let free they quickly made their way out of the forest and back towards the mountain.

Thorin turned and stared at the dark forest in front of him, feeling unease creep through his body like a climbing vine. Had he been too hasty with his quest to confront the Elvenking? Not only was he walking right into the clutches of the elf’s kingdom, but he was coming to demand him to take away an enchantment. He could just be damning himself to be put under any new spells Thranduil saw fit. Was he being foolish? He felt another pang as Thranduil’s face passed through his thoughts, lit behind with the magical glow of the healing, and he knew that he must do this. He had to demand a revoking of the spell or go mad with these spiraling visions.

Once they neared the woodland palace, they were met with a host of elves, all of them carrying bows and swords and looking as haughty as elves were wont to look. Their hair hung in soft sheets and their gait was smooth; about as opposite any dwarf one could be.

“I request an audience with the Elvenking Thranduil,” Thorin stated strongly, his voice filled with kingly power. “I have business that must be discussed with him.”

One elf stepped forward and Thorin recognized the king’s son. Thorin realized that there was a resemblance between the two elves that he hadn’t recognized before, apparent around the eyes of the younger elf, and he had to frown heavily in an attempt to banish such thoughts.

“The king is busy at this time. Dark forces are collecting and strengthening, and though you dwarves are blind to all but your people, the elves have much on their minds,” the blond elf said.

“It will only take but a small amount of your king’s time and it is urgent. For the sake of my rule and my kingdom, I need his ear.” Thorin wanted to snap at this elf who thought he knew the ways of dwarves, but he kept his temper in check. If he was to see Thranduil he had to keep the conversation civil and calm.

The elf judged him a moment longer before nodding and turning to the others in the party and saying something in Elvish which had them escorting Thorin and his guards along towards the kingdom of the Elvenking. The complete silence in which the elves walked contrasted greatly with the heavy steps of the dwarves, and it irritated the elves, if the dark gazes thrown at their feet were anything to go by.

Finally they made it to the large stone gates that were woven with vines and moss, which were thrown open with a deep rumbling as the group approached. The halls of the woodland elves were just as Thorin had remembered them: vast and splendid, and much different than the halls of Erebor which were lit with firelight and soared up higher than the eye could see. These halls were filled with sunlight and leafy vines with walkways that wove through the halls like the branches of a tree.

They were led across one of the pathways that snaked upward to where Thorin knew the throne to be. Before they made it all the way to the top an elven guard stopped them in their path.

“The king orders you to wait here,” he instructed sharply.

The group of dwarves stopped and the elves that had been guarding them moved ahead, up the stairs to the throne room and out of sight, leaving them to wait on the sloping path. What a way to treat a king! Thorin seethed as he stood there, unable to do much more than glare at the stairs in front of him with his arms crossed and his mouth a thin line. It was only his important quest that kept his temper in check. He viciously stemmed the anticipation that curdled in his stomach at the thought of King Thranduil being so nearby, determined to be stronger than the magic in his mind. He was a king, not some love-struck maiden!

Thorin did not have to wait long before an elf came back and stated that the king was ready to see him. He followed the elf up to the huge carved wooden throne that the Elvenking was sprawled gracefully on as if he had been there for some time. Thorin had no trouble imagining the elf ordering the guards to make Thorin wait so that he could appear settled on his throne before the dwarf saw him.

Unfortunately for Thorin, these thoughts were brief, only to be shadowed by the shock of seeing Thranduil in person for the first time since the healing. He felt pulled, drawn to the elf that was smoothly unfolding himself from the throne and stepping down towards him. Thorin’s inner thoughts were almost comical in their absurdity. This elf had boiled hatred in his veins since his betrayal that day, long enough that hating him had become natural to Thorin, but all of that anger had dried up at the first sight of Thranduil. He was the image of splendor in his ruby robes and crown of leaves and flowers that framed his face, and his hair was indeed spun gold. The spell in his mind must have been extremely potent to produce such a reaction from Thorin.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare, or will you not state why you are here, Thorin, King under the Mountain?”

The smooth, lilting voice drew Thorin out of his inner reverie. Thorin forced what was probably a much too soft expression from his face and attempted a good, solid glare.

“I am here to discuss the day in which you healed my wounds with your suspicious magic,” Thorin stated flatly, pointing a finger at the elf, whose face immediately took on a startled expression.

The king’s face quickly cleared as he moved closer to where Thorin was standing, close enough that Thorin had to look up to see his face. Curse the elves and their height!

“I confess, I was doubtful that you would remember, so close to death you were, but I did foresee hostility towards my actions. It is unfortunate, as I only did it out of sympathy and hope that it would settle the waters between us and our people.”

“I’ll believe that when the elves give up their bows and arrows and the dwarves their gold,” Thorin said lowly.

“It is of no matter to me whether or not you appreciate the gift I so graciously awarded you. It has been given, and you will act as you wish.” Thranduil turned, pacing towards his throne before turning to gaze at Thorin again. “What is it that you are here to complain about exactly?”

Thorin was fighting his heart every moment that he glared at the Elvenking, and as he swallowed back a stupid grin he knew the madness had to end.

“You have put a spell on me, and I demand that you remove it!”

Thranduil furrowed his brows and titled his head, stopping mid-step in his pacing. “I do not know of what you speak.” He clasped his hands behind his back and peered curiously at the dwarf.

Thorin resisted shouting that the elf was a liar, which would only anger the king and make matters worse. “When you used your magic to heal my wounds, you took the advantage and planted a spell of your devising in my mind. I am on to your trickery, Elvenking, and I want it gone.”

The elf glanced at the collection of elves around him and then at Thorin’s dwarven guards before turning his gaze back to Thorin. “Perhaps this conversation would be better held in a more private setting. It seems there has been a misunderstanding that needs to be resolved. Your guards will be given food and a place to rest from your journey if you will follow me.”

He flicked his finger once in a beckoning gesture and turned, striding towards a path behind his throne.

“How can I trust you without my guards? Do you think me mad?”

Thranduil turned to see that Thorin had not moved, his arms crossed and his feet at shoulder-width distance apart. He was the image of pure stubbornness.

The Elvenking sighed lightly, a sound that made Thorin’s ears ring peculiarly. “I will not have my guards with me and you may keep your sword,” he said eventually, voice calm.

At that moment, the king’s son stepped forward with a frown on his face and spoke sharply in Elvish to which his father responded calmly with a hand held out and a stern expression. Whatever he had said silenced his son but left a frown on the young elf’s face as he stepped back again.

“Are you coming, dwarf-king?” Thranduil’s gaze was upon him again.

Thorin decided that getting the spell removed was worth the risk, so he nodded once and followed after the graceful elf in ruby robes. He glanced back at his guards and nodded once, his signal that they should let him do this. They didn’t look happy about it, but they did not protest.

As they walked further away from the throne room, Thorin’s eyes were drawn to the way Thranduil’s robes sparkled in the golden light filtering through the rooftop, and he had to practically shake himself to avoid staring. He allowed his eye to travel out across the sprawling palace, aware that they were travelling upward, possibly to the highest point in the castle. From here it was easy to see the action taking place everywhere else; they were approaching a place of importance, it seemed.

When he saw where the elf was leading them Thorin was given pause. “You brought me to your chambers?”

Thranduil glanced over his shoulder at the dwarf. “They are the most private rooms in the kingdom, the most secure, and the most comfortable. Do you object?”

Thorin thought it strange for the elf to lead them here, but the motives of the Elvenking were never clear. Thorin shook his head in response and quietly followed the elf into the sweeping rooms.

Thranduil’s private chambers were flooded with golden sunlight and had intricate designs carved into the wood all around. Across the top of the rooms, leaves grew, and Thorin could hear the trickling of water coming from somewhere. The room embodied the heart of the forest, embodied the spirit of the king of the forest, and Thorin found himself staring in wonder at the gorgeous chambers. His own chambers back in his homeland were grandeur, and while they spoke of strong and deep power, these rooms were light and magical, exhibiting power in a much different way. They spoke of what the forest had been back when it was still the Greenwood, and Thorin mourned the loss of the beauty and peace it seemed to hold.

“Have a seat,” Thranduil instructed, gesturing to a small table with two chairs pushed up to it, made of the darkest, richest of woods and looking as if it had grown right out of the floor. Thorin sat in the nearest chair and watched as Thranduil moved over to a side table and poured amber liquid into two glasses. While passing one to Thorin he said, “Perhaps we should make sure we understand each other. You are under the impression that while I was saving your life I took the time to put you under a spell?” He spoke slowly and carefully as he lowered himself into the chair across from Thorin, close enough that his knee brushed Thorin’s leg as he sat down. He took a sip of the drink in his hand and peered at the dwarf.

“Why else would you save my life but for your own gain?” Thorin eyed the liquid in the glass suspiciously before setting it down on the table in favor of crossing his arms.

Thranduil leaned back in the chair and crossed one leg over the other, much more at ease than Thorin felt, looking striking in the tall boots underneath his stately robes. Thorin forced his gaze to remain on the elf’s face. “The relationship that we have shared over the years would make your assumption logical,” he eventually responded. “Though I must tell you that what you say is impossible.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow.

“Elves possess healing magic, yes, but a small amount that cannot be used any other way. What has happened to you that you accuse me of?”

Thorin was silent. How was he to tell the Elvenking of his symptoms without sounding like a fool? He would attempt being vague. “I have been put under a love spell,” he said bluntly.

Thranduil’s face showed his surprise. “A love spell,” the elf repeated incredulously.

“That is what I said.”

“You do realize that you sound absurd, do you not?”

Thorin sent the stormiest glare he could muster at the Elvenking. “Do not insult me, Thranduil,” he spat, watching as the elf’s mouth thinned. “I suspected an enchantment the moment I started experiencing its effects, feverish in their quality. I greatly dislike the object of my infatuation. How could I possibly fall in love with them?”

“You must be unfamiliar with the nature of love spells,” Thranduil responded, tilting his head with a small smirk and the tone of one speaking to a small child.

“Do enlighten me,” Thorin growled back, teeth bared.

Thranduil circled one thin finger along the rim of the glass as he spoke. “Love spells are powerful dark magic and only performed by those who are desperate. Furthermore, when one is possessed by the magic of a love spell, they are not at all self-aware. They will do nothing but attempt to be close to the one that they have fallen in love with and do not see sense when told their feelings are fabricated. They are dangerous and desperate. You do not seem to be either, King Thorin,” he finished, looking up at Thorin with bright eyes.

“Impossible.” He could not have fallen in love with Thranduil naturally. Almost all of his life he had hated the elf, thought him to be the reason that his people had faced such terrible destruction.

“What motive could I have for forcing you to fall in love with someone?” Thranduil asked lightly, quirking an eyebrow as he gazed at the dwarf king. The motion drew Thorin’s eye, and he had to regain his focus before speaking.

“I do not pretend to understand the ways of elves, but muddling my thoughts and planting false longings in my mind so that it is more difficult for me to rule seems something you would happily do. Perhaps it is all a joke to you.”

Thranduil was silent for a moment. “Might you tell me who is so impossible to love?”

Thorin could remain still no longer. He leapt to his feet and began pacing, linking his hands behind his back, aware of the other king’s gaze following him. “An elf.”

Silence resounded. It took a few moments for Thranduil to respond. “I see.” He paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps your heart is at war with your mind and that is why your feelings seem so foreign. After all, love is a strange force.”

“It is impossible.”

A soft sigh came from the elf, and Thorin turned to see him staring into his glass. “There was a time when our people were on good terms, when it was not uncommon to see an elf and a dwarf together. It was so long ago that not many alive in Middle Earth remember.” Thranduil looked up. “A marriage between our kin would strengthen our relations, would it not? Dark times are coming, and it seems wise to me that we attempt to forge some semblance of trust between our peoples.”

Thorin swallowed heavily. “Even if I were to accept that this _love_ is genuine, there is no way that any relationship would work.” Thorin could feel his hatred for the Elvenking fighting a violent battle for the swell of affection that was filling him. How was this possible? “Are you certain that there are no adverse effects to a healing?”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed and the grip he had on his glass seemed to tighten. “You still believe that your love for an elf is somehow a fault of mine? Dwarves are the most stubborn of any being on this earth.” A sudden thought seemed to come to him as his features froze. He set his glass down and uncrossed his legs, staring at the dwarf as if he were a puzzle.

Thorin felt his skin crawl at the gaze.

“You thought that after I healed you, when you were having dreams of the feverish haze of the healing, that it was my fault, and that the affection that followed these dreams was also of my devising. How could it be that a dwarf king falls in love with one whom he held such animosity towards for so long?” Thranduil leaned forward in his seat, icy eyes boring into Thorin, seeing right through to his soul in their intensity. “How could it be anything other than an enchantment that forces him to fall in love with the Elvenking himself?”

Thorin’s breath left him, and he swallowed through a dry mouth. Thorin had not counted on the elf’s sharp mind to cut through his vague wording and right to the point. Thorin was suddenly aware of his foolishness and how he had led himself into a trap. He had acted rashly and rushed out to confront the Elvenking, instead of putting more thought to the matter. Whether he was under a spell or not, the elf would have seen his weakness and could easily use it against him. Thorin was left floundering in the results of his foolish mistakes.

The knowledge that his love was nothing but real was like a bucket of cold water over Thorin’s head, forcing him to wake up and reevaluate his thoughts, and it wasn’t long until he realized his burning hatred for the regal elf’s betrayal had more to it. Pushed down were the old longings that had been in his heart as a young dwarf by his grandfather’s side when he had first set his eyes on the Elvenking. He had been foolish then, but those old flames had apparently been rekindled when Thranduil had saved his life and when their alliance had been rehashed in the aftermath of the battle. Thorin had always had strong feelings towards the king of the Mirkwood elves, and now was no exception.

Thranduil sat back in his chair, face losing its intensity as he watched the internal battle Thorin was waging. “There are no adverse effects to a healing, Thorin, and there is no reason other than the longings of your own heart that you have been thinking of me.”

“You assume much, elf,” Thorin bit out around his humiliation.

“You do not deny any of it, though, now that I have discovered the truth.”

Thorin turned away from the judging eyes of the Elvenking, unable to face his shame, clenching his hands into fists by his sides and looking down at his boots. “I am ready to leave.”

There was a long silence from behind him. “I still stand behind my original opinion that a courtship would bridge the gap that has been between our people for all of these years.”

Thorin froze.

“Do not make me speak to your back, Thorin,” the Elvenking said with a steady, soft voice. Thorin barely hesitated before he turned towards the elf, curiosity winning out over his self-preservation. That icy gaze was back on him again; more intense than before, if that was even possible. “Please, sit down.” His gaze moved to the empty chair across from him. Again, there was only a momentary pause before Thorin complied.

“Considering what has now come to pass between us, I believe utter honesty is important. The ice we are treading is thin, likely to break if either of us steps too heavily.”

“What is it that you have to hide, Thranduil, now that you have laid me bare?”

Thranduil picked up his drink again, finishing the last of the amber liquid before setting the empty glass back down on the table. “The reason I healed you.”

“I knew you had a reason to heal me that would benefit yourself!”

The Elvenking’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes, but not in the way you would think.”

Thorin glared. “I’m listening.”

Thranduil broke eye contact and gazed at something that Thorin couldn’t see. “It was not by word-of-mouth that I discovered that you were mortally wounded, but a sight I had seen firsthand. You did not know it, but I was fighting with my host of elves in a spot in which I could see you and your line perfectly, and you drew my eye right away. The way you fought, it was as if everything you ever cared about was in danger. That was when I saw you get stabbed by an orc blade in the chest, deep enough to bring you to your knees, and most definitely enough to kill you.” Thranduil’s gaze was back on Thorin again. “You struggled your way to your feet and kept fighting, and the sight of it was enthralling, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór.

“The battle took the rest of my attention, but in my thoughts I was forced to watch again and again as you fell to your knees from such a wound, knowing that somewhere you were likely close to death. When the battle had ended it was by word of one of my soldiers that I heard of your state, dying in your tent. I realized then that I had one chance to pay tribute to what I finally saw within you: a heart and soul whose only purpose was for your people and your homeland.”

Thorin was taken utterly off guard by the king’s speech, and was completely silent as Thranduil finished his tale.

“When I came into the tent to return the sword you had earned a thousand times over and saw you approaching death I realized that I could not allow you to die. I had to see you on that throne in your mountain, one way or another.” He pulled the same pouch that Thorin had seen that day out of the front of his robes. “I always carry a supply of healing herbs, for cases of dire need.”

Thorin was left in a shocked daze, staring blankly at the elf. He could have been spouting insanities and it would been more likely than the tale he had woven for Thorin.

Thranduil leaned forward in his chair, which put his face close to Thorin’s. “You were not the only one to feel as if they had been put under an enchantment that day.” Thranduil tilted his head. “Although, I will not lie and say that was the first time you caught my eye. You did look quite the proud young dwarf standing by your elders in your mountain those years ago.”

Thorin slammed a fist down on the table in anger and confusion. “This is insanity! How am I to believe you are not mocking me?”

The Elvenking pursed his lips slightly and narrowed his eyes, an internal battle waging beneath his bright gaze. “What would change your mind, Oakenshield? What would prove to you that I am not lying, nor mocking.”

Thorin was silent.

Before Thorin could think to respond, Thranduil wrapped a quick hand around the back of Thorin’s neck and gently pulled, bringing him close enough so that he could plant a soft kiss on Thorin’s lips. He had backed away before Thorin could react, but the kiss left a searing mark across the dwarf’s mouth. He gaped openly at the elf’s soft gaze.

“We would both be fools to go against what we both know is fate, for only fate would bring together two such as us.”

Thorin was beginning to question his ability to go against fate in the first place, as strong was the pull towards the Elvenking.

“You have convinced me,” Thorin responded gruffly, unable to argue any longer. It had felt like fate, the reason Thorin had thought it a spell. Looking at Thranduil now, he could not deny how dearly he wanted to lean forward and kiss that mouth that was curved up at the corners, run his fingers through that silken hair. The pointed ear that the golden hair was brushed behind was suddenly enchanting.

“We will do it the traditional way. We are both kings with trusting people who need to have strong leaders to look up to in times like these. There cannot be a scandal on top of all else,” Thranduil reasoned.

Though Thorin wanted to do anything but wait, he knew that was the responsible way for them to carry on from here. He was a true king now, and he had to act like one. He nodded. “I agree. My people need to be convinced that it is a good idea. We will all require time to adjust.”

“We should begin with a stronger truce between our people. I shall bring a host of elves to your kingdom within the next two fortnights, and we can arrange matters from there. Once our people begin trusting one another, then we can begin the courtship.” The Elvenking’s brows were drawn together as he reasoned; he was just as doubtful of the plan as Thorin was. Both of them knew how deep the rift between elves and dwarves ran, and it would not be fixed within such a short time. He knew that neither of them wanted to wait so long to be together, strong as the connection between them seemed to be, but as responsible kings they must. Their people came first.

By the time they had finished talking, the light was slanting in through the windows enough to show that dusk nearing, and Thorin had allowed all of his anger towards the Elvenking to fade. His chest fluttered with the new, unhindered feelings, and it awed him to now know exactly what they were.

“You and your guards are invited to stay the night. The forest is dangerous once the light is gone; even I do not know exactly what lurks there during the night.”

Thorin glanced out at the sun that was setting over the treetops and knew that he had no other choice. “I thank you.”

Thranduil stood and moved towards the door, glancing over his shoulder as Thorin followed him. He reached to open the door, stopping at the last moment and facing the dwarf. “We have a trial in our future, it seems. It will be difficult, but I believe with enough determination it will work in our favor.”

“Fate must have a dislike for the both of us, to put us in such a situation,” Thorin said softly, unable to break the eye contact he held with the elf. “If I couldn’t feel the pull now, I wouldn’t believe such a thing possible of happening.”

Thranduil inclined his head. “It is unbelievable, but fate has chosen our places, and maybe for the purpose of bringing our peoples together after all this time.” He reached out and lifted a lock of Thorin’s hair which was woven with a strand of gold, his expression fond as he twirled it on his finger. Thorin watched in awe. “It cannot be anything other than destiny.” He dropped the lock of hair and let his hand fall back to his side.

“Until we are able to be together again, Thorin Oakenshield,” he said softly, leaning down so that he was eye level with Thorin. When he kissed Thorin for the second time it was gentle and slow, more proper of a first kiss, and it made Thorin’s heart ache with want. Thorin lifted a hand and ran his fingers through hair that was as soft as silk, awed at finally doing what he had dreamt of many a night and marveling at how it was even better than he thought it would be. His fingers caressed a pointed ear. Thranduil’s hand moved to the side of the dwarf’s face, and he brushed a thumb along the edge of Thorin’s short beard as they kissed sweetly.

They pulled apart, and it was over far too quickly.

“I hope to enjoy a future with you, Oakenshield, if fate allows us that opportunity.”

Thorin smirked. “We can be the masters of our own fate if we choose,” he responded. “We will be together, yet, Elvenking.”

And so it was that they were parted, and neither knew for certain what their future held for them.

**Author's Note:**

> The end! Hope you enjoyed!


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